


Scary Stories (To Tell In the Dark)

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Halloween, LiveJournal Meme, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so they're not ALL scary.  But here's a collection of Halloween-themed drabbles, featuring a variety of characters and ships!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumn Leaves (Jaime/Sansa)

 

"In the North, the autumn leaves never turn bright."  
  
The words, spoken on a wistful sigh, halt Jaime's progress; he's been kissing a path from her bare shoulder up the side of her neck, humming all the while. When he reached her ear (just before Sansa’s interruption), he drew the lobe between his teeth for a light nibble before softly singing into the whorl: "I loved a maid as red as autumn..."  
  
He says nothing in reply. His arms tighten around Sansa, and she presses her back into his chest. They stare together out the large window near the bed, out to where the bare trees bend beneath the weight of ice and snow. Jaime dips his head down to brush his lips over her temple, and she speaks again:  
  
“The trees are thick with green leaves in the summer. But once there’s a chill in the air, they fall from the branches and leave them bare through winter. No colors in between.”  
  
She smiles when he wraps her rust-colored hair around his hand and tugs until her head falls back. Her lips are cool beneath his, and there’s a trace of spiced ale on her breath.   
  
When they break apart, Jaime can’t help but frown at the sudden shadow that seeps into the blue of her eyes. He bends down again, intending to distract her with another kiss, but she begins before he can stop her, “There were beautiful leaves in the Vale. Orange and red...”  
  
He forces his voice into a teasing lilt as he twists her hair around his hand again and draws a thick, glossy lock into her field of vision, “You’ve no need for bright leaves, when you carry autumn on your head all year long.”   
  
She laughs, and he’s glad for it- there are still bits of brown in the hair at the nape of her neck, but the red glows more brilliantly by the day.   
  
A tiny hand reaches up and lands on the back of his head, fingers teasing at the short curls. “Some autumn leaves are gold, you know.”  
  
 _Aye, red and gold._  He tries to think of a jape, a jest, something irreverent and wicked to draw their minds away from the phantom Lannister words hanging in the air...  
  
But when Sansa pivots herself around and kneels between his legs, white arms wrapping around his shoulders and soft breasts pressing to his chest, he finds the diversion more than enough.


	2. Night Terrors (Jaime/Sansa)

The dream is a familiar one, and it begins as usual.   
  
 _The blood rushes down his right arm, from the shoulder to the elbow to the wrist- the dead nerves at the end spark with energy, with **feeling**...the golden fingers, usually so inflexible and inert, bend at his will, become a part of him, one with his skin, one with his bones..._  
  
 _A fierce joy seizes his heart, and he feels drunk, delirious. Fire licks its way through his veins, delight combining with righteous rage until he’s sure he’ll combust- it’s all too much, it overwhelms every sense. But still he reaches down; a red miasma dances before his eyes, obscuring his view, but he cries out when he feels the fingers of the golden hand closing around a long, soft neck. He **feels**  it all- the skin is smooth and delicate as rose petals, and it gives easily under the pressure he applies. _  
  
 _But then the crimson mist clears from his field of vision, and he sees her. Instead of gold and green, he sees red and blue...Sansa clutches at the golden hand, prying frantically at the fingers...horrified, Jaime tries to release...but this time, the hand acts of its own volition, sinking deeper and deeper into the whiteness of Sansa’s throat. Her cheeks flush red, then violet...her eyes go wide with fear and shock...she cannot speak, but he watches her lips shape a word- his heart sinks hard into his stomach when he recognizes it: “Please.”_  
  
 _He grips the golden hand with the flesh-and-blood one, tugging and yanking, and yet it’s no use. She continues to mouth the word- “Please, please”- even as the life drains from her face, the light fading from her eyes..._  
  
Jaime wakes in a cold sweat- breaths quick, heart racing. He can feel the warm press of Sansa’s body at his side; she sleeps soundly, her face nestled into the crook of his shoulder. An irrational panic seizes his heart as his gaze shifts to his own right arm...and then the panic turns to confusion when he sees no gleam of gold there. He cranes his neck to look farther into the darkness; the golden hand lies on the pillow on Sansa’s other side. She holds the stump in one of her hands, her cool fingertips stroking over the smooth, dead skin as she sleeps.  
  
Normally, he would find himself outraged at her audacity; she never removes the golden hand without his consent (and he rarely gives her such permission). But the violent, heady sensations of the dream still linger in his muscles, and the guilt that accompanies them squeezes at his heart. And so he banishes the indignation that knocks insistently at his brain and folds her in his arms. When she clutches his naked right arm close to her chest, rubbing her petal-soft cheek against the blunt end, he gives himself over to the wave of relief that eases his thrumming heartbeat and steadies his ragged breaths.


	3. Campfire Stories (Daenerys & Jorah)

A laugh fills the tent, nearly surprising Dany with its brightness; it’s the truest laugh she can remember uttering in a long, long time. The smile lingers on her face when she hears Ser Jorah echo the laugh. It’s a surprisingly-chilly night on the Dothraki Sea- her husband, still little more than a stranger to her, keeps company with his blood-riders now. She hasn’t seen Viserys in hours; a part of her worries that he’s getting up to mischief or otherwise alienating the khal, but she shrugs her concerns aside.  _Viserys can take care of himself- he reminds me of that all the time._  
  
Ser Jorah chuckles before tossing another piece of dry wood into the small fire-pit. Not for the first time, Dany feels a swell of gratitude for the Westerosi knight’s benevolent presence. She has her handmaidens for companionship, but they can offer nothing so diverting as Ser Jorah’s tales of his homeland, the stories of the midnight sun and long moons of darkness, of freezing air and packs of wolves and, most of all, the wild antics of the snow bears.  
  
Dany has never seen snow, can scarcely picture it, but Ser Jorah’s rich stories help her imagine the damp coolness on her skin, and she shivers.  
  
A silence falls between them, and Dany’s memory summons up a tale she’d heard long ago. Viserys had been trying to frighten her, and he conjured up a terrifying story of undead creatures who haunt the Northern forests, preying on whatever living beings they can find. She always assumed that Viserys invented these spectral monsters; his imagination proved peerless when it came to devising ways to scare his sister. And yet, a kernel of curiosity rolls back and forth in her brain, swelling and popping until she blurts out,  
  
“Have you ever heard of the White Walkers?”  
  
Ser Jorah blinks, a deep furrow forming in his brow. At first, she thinks it an expression of confusion, but then he asks in a unusually grave tone, “Who told you about the Walkers?”  
  
“Viserys,” Dany murmurs, mesmerized by the darkness that sweeps across the knight’s plain face. “I always thought that he made them up to frighten me. Are....are they real?”  
  
Ser Jorah’s shoulders move up and down as he sighs. “I believe so, yes.”   
  
But then a flash of good humor lights his eyes anew, and he tosses another splint into the flames. His voice is jovial (perhaps too jovial) when he speaks again, “But there’s no need to fear, Khaleesi. They’ve only ever been seen in the distant North, and even then, it was hundreds of years ago.” He nods to the side of the tent, where Dany’s dragon eggs nestle together in a basket. “Think of it this way- there have been sightings of live dragons far more recently than anyone’s caught a glimpse of the Walkers.”  
  
Dany offers Ser Jorah a smile and nod of acknowledgement, even as a sudden shiver, more immediate and exhilarating than the others, dances up her spine.


	4. Jack o' Lantern (Brienne & Jaime)

“Did you find anything worth eating?”  
  
Brienne huffs a frustrated breath in response to Jaime’s question. She spent the last hour scouring the wooded area in search of game, but the animals proved too quick and cagey to catch in her makeshift traps. She managed to dig up a few roots, collect several handfuls of tart berries, and grab some gourds from the closest clearing.  
  
When she deposits the meager feast at Jaime’s feet, his eyes light up at the sight of the gourds. He picks up the largest one and places it between his knees to steady it before pulling his dagger out of his scabbard. And then it’s a blur of steel and orange vegetable matter as he hacks away, sawing the top off and digging out the innards, which he deposits in the little iron pot next to the campfire.  
  
“What are you doing?” Brienne exclaims, “That’s the best food I found all day, and you’re ruining it!”  
  
Jaime doesn’t look up from the gourd; he merely uses a foot to shunt the pot toward her. “Put that over the flame for a while- we’ll have a mash that’s fine to eat.”   
  
She moves to do just that while still keeping a wary eye on her companion. Jaime’s jaw sets with annoyance as he digs his dagger into the hard skin of the gourd, his left hand making clumsy work of it. Brienne does not offer assistance; she knows better than that. She just stirs the fragrant mash, wincing a bit each time he grunts his frustration.  
  
At last, he steps to her side and reaches down to light a little splint of wood in the campfire. He places the gourd on a flat rock and opens the top, dropping the splint within and closing it again. Brienne looks away from her cooking and laughs at the sight- he’s carved a crude face into the empty gourd, and the fire glows brightly through the eyes and mouth.   
  
Jaime’s eyes shine as bright as the gourd’s as he says, “My uncle used to carve gourds with my brother and me, when we were children. He said that they ward wicked spirits away.”   
  
And then he smiles, all white teeth and sparkling eyes and boyish glee, and Brienne can do nothing but smile back.


	5. Catacombs (Jaime/Lysa)

The dim light of his candle flickers in the arches of the catacombs, casting eerie shadows along each wall. He can hear the dripping of dirty water falling on the stone passages-  
  
"The dead bodies are leaking...they swell and stink and then they drip with a foul green liquid that sinks into the stones and lets their spirits enter the house..." Jaime whispers, and he rolls his eyes when Lysa gasps in reply.   
  
He's just spent a tedious afternoon walking his new wife around the grounds of Casterly Rock (at his father's demand, of course). She gaped with wonderment at the elaborate furnishings, the gold and obsidian and onyx and marble. When they reached the Hall of Heroes, she started in with her strange, insipid questions, the ones that she asks in that queer, high tone, the ones that have no clear answer...  
  
The catacombs came to him in a flash of inspiration-  _may as well let Lady Lannister see **everything**  there is to see at the Rock_.  
  
Her bony fingers sink deep into his bicep, and he thinks for a moment to recoil in disgust. If he were to make up such tales with Cersei, she'd slap his shoulder and call him a liar...or she would try to surpass him with an even gorier story. But Lysa only clings to his side like an anxious pup, her eyes wide and limpid and incredulous. There's no challenge in it, no fun to be had- he feels the burn of frustration coursing up from his belly to his chest, turning to anger by the time it reaches his throat.   
  
Lysa opens her mouth to speak- likely to ask yet another idiotic question or to utter some bizarre non-sequitur- but before she can say anything, Jaime blows out the candle, submerging them in complete darkness. As she begins to whimper, he shoves her aside and races away to the hidden passage that leads up onto the main grounds- he knows it without seeing, he and Cersei know every passageway, every corridor, every nook, every cranny.   
  
He climbs the steps leading upward, and he listens as Lysa's whimpers turn to screams and sobs. His lips twist into a sneer, and the sound is rough in his throat when he begins to laugh.


	6. Costumes (Roose/Walda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the following prompt: Walda makes Roose dress up in a couple's costume. Modern AU.

“Walda, it’s only us here.  Why bother with costumes?”

Roose looks up from his newspaper and cocks a brow in his wife’s direction.  But she doesn’t budge- she just stands still in the doorway with outstretched arms, holding out the costume she wants him to wear.

“I know, but we can give candy to the children together-“

He sighs and shakes his head, finally folding the paper shut and giving her his full attention.  ”There aren’t many children in this neighborhood.  I already told you that you bought too much candy.”  And she bought the sugariest candies she could find- Ring Pops and Nerds and Pixi Sticks- just the thought of it makes Roose’s stomach churn.

Walda’s lip juts out in a slight pout as she takes a step into the room.  ”I spent all week making these….it would make me very happy if you dressed up with me.”

Something about her soft tone and pleading eyes softens him, and he offers her a gentle smile, rising from his chair and walking toward her.  ”If it would make you happy-“

Walda’s face splits into a wide grin, and she spreads the costume out on the bed.  

“American Gothic?” he asks as she hands him a pitchfork and a hat.

“You know the man in that painting reminds me a little of you.”  She blushes a bit, then stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before turning to leave the room.

As she approaches the staircase, she calls out- “I bought some cider when I was at the orchard today…shall I warm some up for us?”

Roose shrugs into the soft flannel shirt she’s made him, the smile clinging to his lips as he replies, “I’d like that.”


	7. Wolf's Blood (Sansa/Jon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the following prompt: Jon/Sansa. AU: Both are cursed by a witch as children to change into their house sigil every full moon. They grow much closer as they deal with their new animal urges together.

She startles him in the yard; he came out early to gather the practice swords and set out the archery targets before Robb and Theon wake.

He fumbles with the quiver of arrows he holds, his eyes firmly focused on his feet.  He will not look her in the eye.  He cannot look her in the eye.

She never knew who kept her company when she entered the  _other_ state.  Even after all these moons, all these years, she never questioned the identity of the white wolf who walked at her side.

She never knew who ran with her through the shadowed woods, keeping pace as she raced, flew,  _soared_ -

Never knew who joined her in the hunt, who tore at the animal carcasses and licked up the thick, dark rivers of blood-

Never knew who curled at her side in the dry, cold cave as they passed their warmth back and forth-

(Never knew who rutted with her when her blood was high, when nothing else could sate her but fierceness and release and  _freedom…_ )

She’d seen him shift last night, and she nearly sobbed her astonishment.  And she knows he saw, too.  Yet that never stopped them from running and hunting and nestling-

(And rutting-)

“I never knew it was you,” she begins, her voice scarcely above a whisper.  Jon says nothing, and she forces herself to glance up at him before she continues, “Did you know-“  
  
“No,” he blurts, his shoulders quivering in a clear shudder.  A hot flush creeps up Sansa’s neck; she’s indignant, and she doesn’t quite understand why.

Jon blushes, too- the apples of his cheeks glow red as cherries (red as the eyes of the white wolf…).

Sansa takes a hesitant step toward her bastard half-brother; her stomach churns as she thinks of how dismissive she’s been, how cool and courteous and impersonal- 

She knows he thinks the same; she can see it in the way he angles his body away from her, the way he refuses to meet her gaze, even when she stands only half-a-pace away.  

Only hours before, they’d been together, they’d been one- enough of the wolf blood still stirs in Sansa’s veins, enough to make her reach out and close her hand over Jon’s shoulder.

“I’m not sorry for it,” she says as steadily as she can.  Her heart thumps so loudly that she’s sure he can hear it; Jon closes his eyes tight, and for a moment, Sansa forgets to breathe-

And then he looks at her.  He gently runs his fingers down her upper arm, and she feels every hair stand on end.  

He leans down, and she swears she can see a gleam of red in his grey eyes when he whispers, “I would never be sorry for it.”


	8. Tricks and Treats (Jaime & the "Baratheon" children)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the following prompt: Modern AU, Jaime takes Tommen, Myrcella, and Joffrey out trick or treating.

When Tommen begins to cry for the dozenth time, Jaime sets his jaw and balls his hands into fists, forcing himself to focus on his breathing- in, out, in, out.  Anything to keep him from seizing Joffrey by the neck of his Darth Vader costume and flinging him into the nearest patch of bushes.

“Let me see what you have,” Joffrey barks at Tommen, snatching away the little boy’s plastic pumpkin and picking out all of the full-size candy bars within.  When Tommen sniffles his objection, Joffrey sneers, “Like you need any more candy; you’re fat enough as it is.”

“Joffrey.  Leave him alone,” Jaime says through gritted teeth, prodding his nephew with the nose of his Han Solo gun.  Joffrey responds by delivering a sound whack to Jaime’s shins with his light saber before racing off to the next house and thumping on the door.

Jaime mutters obscenities under his breath, his rage threatening to overtake him…but then he looks at Tommen, who shakes and weeps as he slowly shuffles along in his boxy R2D2 suit.  Instead of marching off after Joffrey, Jaime kneels beside the younger boy and whispers in his ear, “You should try the house on the other corner.  I saw them giving away swirly lollipops and PEZ dispensers.”

Tommen’s eyes light up, and he cautiously approaches the house, taking care to stay out of Joffrey’s sight.

“Where did the crybaby go?” Joffrey shouts, stomping back in Jaime’s direction with his Vader mask pushed up and his mouth full of chocolate and caramel.

Jaime shrugs in response.  Joffrey looks this way, then that way- Jaime’s stomach sinks when the boy’s mouth spreads into a sinister smirk- he takes a step in Tommen’s direction, then another-

A stream of orange silly string comes out of nowhere, coating Joffrey’s face and the bits of hair that fall out over his forehead.  He shouts with surprise and drops his candy bag, trying and failing to stay out of the stream of string, then hastening to wipe the sticky substance off of himself.

Myrcella steps out of her hiding spot behind a large tree and calmly approaches.  She pops the cap back on her can of silly string and kneels to collect the candy that her brother dropped on the street.

Jaime laughs, then reaches down to straighten her Princess Leia wig.  When she looks up at him, a mischievous grin on her face and a roguish twinkle in her eye, he feels a peculiar twinge in his heart that almost feels like regret.  


	9. Storytelling (Myrcella, Sansa, & Tommen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the following prompt: Tommen and Myrcella ask Sansa to tell them a scary story.

Tommen giggles, a sweet and increasingly-rare sound, and Myrcella looks up from her needlework to smile in Sansa’s direction.  The Northern girl holds the little prince on her lap, stroking her hand through his thick golden curls, and his face looks as blissfully satisfied as any purring kitten’s.  She’s been regaling him with stories all evening- fairy tales and folk legends, stories from a land far away that are entirely new to Tommen…and to Myrcella, too.

Truth be told, she likes to listen to Sansa’s stories as much as her little brother does.  Sometimes, she even wishes to climb on Sansa’s other knee and feel that soft hand running through her own curls…but she’s a grown girl, nearly a lady, and a  _Princess_  besides. It wouldn’t do for her to sit on the other girl’s lap like a babe in swaddling clothes.

But she does look forward to these evenings, and she’d have this one last a little longer.

“Do you know any scary stories, Sansa?  You must know some.”

Tommen shakes his head in objection, and Myrcella fixes him with a sharp stare and an eye roll.  Sansa hesitates for a moment, but Myrcella looks up at her from under her lashes with the expression that always gets her what she wants from Uncle Tyrion and Uncle Jaime and Uncle Renly.  

At last, the Northern girl nods.  ”I know a few.”  She lowers her head to murmur to Tommen, “You can cover your ears if you like.”

But Myrcella quirks one brow, then the other, and Tommen keeps his hands firmly folded in his lap.

Sansa begins to tell a story about a wild little raven-haired lass who never refuses a dare.  One day, the girl accepts her brother’s challenge to venture into the crypts beneath her castle and discover just how many skeletons lurk within.  She goes down into the bowels of the great house, and she’s sure she sees and hears ghosts in every corner…and yet she’s brave and bold and does not run, refuses to give in to fear-

Sansa abruptly halts her story, a dark shadow passing across her pretty face and settling in her eyes.  Her eyelashes flutter shut, and she breathes- shallow, shaking breaths.  Tommen frowns at his sister, his brows knitting in confusion-

A single tear trails down the slope of Sansa’s cheek, exquisite in its solitude.

Some impulse urges Myrcella out of her chair, and she steps around to stand behind Sansa.  Without thinking, she places her hand on the top of Sansa’s ruddy head and strokes her fingers through the glossy waves, again and again and again.

Sansa rubs her head into Myrcella’s hand, and her breaths slowly relax.


	10. House Party (Cersei, Margaery, Robert, Jaime)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the following prompt: Modern AU - ANYONE who's ANYONE is invited to the Lannister Halloween Party (with bonus Margaery and Cersei competition PLEEEEASE??)

“You look fantastic!  Seriously, you should just wear that every day- it fits you like a glove!”

Cersei tosses her hair and laughs; Margaery’s tone is pleasant and earnest, but she doesn’t miss the bright glint in the sweet brown eyes.  The Tyrell girl looks pretty fantastic herself.. _.too_  fantastic for Cersei’s taste.  Her Wonder Woman costume consists of a scandalously-short skirt, a tight, cleavage-baring halter, and a pair of knee-high boots that turn the head of every guest in the place (well, every  _male_  guest, anyway).

But Cersei expected that Margaery would put on a good show, so she dressed accordingly.  Her Catwoman costume clings to her curves in the most appealing way possible; she’d had it custom-made, along with her black leather stiletto boots.  All of the guys who pretend not to stare at Margaery had gawked at Cersei first- even Robert, who usually pays her as little attention as he can manage, had taken the opportunity to grope her ass and whisper some crude suggestion in her ear that made her roll her eyes and curl her lip.

She excuses herself from Margaery and does a lap around the party- a small group plays Spin the Bottle on the porch, and Lysa Tully pouts every time her spin fails to land on Petyr Baelish- Lysa’s sister Cat disappears into one of the guest rooms with a furiously-blushing Ned Stark- Loras Tyrell and Oberyn Martell hold Renly Baratheon over a keg while a group of idiots cheers him on-

And then she glances into the downstairs powder room.  Her jaw sets and a hot flush of rage spreads across her chest and up her neck; Robert has Margaery Tyrell pinned against the wall, his hand slipping up into her halter top as he sucks on her neck.  Margaery’s head lolls to the side, and Cersei catches a glimpse of her face- she has the nerve to look  _bored_ while hooking up with her hostess’s boyfriend in plain sight.  

She nearly turns the light on and announces her presence…but a hand on her shoulder diverts her attention.

Jaime grins at her from beneath his Zorro mask, his hand lazily tracing the curve of her hip.  

“God, you look amazing,” he whispers, and she smiles when he pulls her close enough to feel his hardness.  ”I’ve been staring at you all night.”

“You and everyone else,” Cersei replies, flipping her hair over her shoulder and offering her brother a brilliant smile.

He tightens his grasp on her and growls, bending down to nip her ear.  ”What are you doing back here?” he purrs, and she feels her knees begin to buckle.

“Nothing,” she replies.  She takes a moment to nudge the door to the powder room closed with her foot before taking Jaime’s hand and leading him up the back staircase to the master bedroom.


	11. Chaperone (Tywin & his siblings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the following prompt: Tywin takes his younger siblings trick-or-treating.

“Where is Gerion?”  

Tywin halts Tygett and Genna in their steps, glancing to and fro in search of their youngest sibling.  

“Is Kevan with him?”  The other two don’t respond; Tyg is busy counting his Milky Ways, and Genna has a Ring Pop on each finger and is happily licking her way back and forth across her knuckles.

“Hey!” Tywin claps his hands and stamps his feet until his brother and sister look in his direction.  ”Where.  Is.  Ger?”

“Uhh…oh! They’re over there!” exclaims Tyg, waving his Indiana Jones whip in a vague direction.  ”They’re behind that bush…”

Genna dashes closer; her fairy princess crown twinkles each time she takes a step.  When she reaches the bush, she cries out- Tywin can’t tell whether she’s screaming or laughing.

“Ewwww!!!!”  

THAT outburst quickens Tywin’s steps, and he pulls out his mag-lite to shine it behind the shrub.  His jaw sets when he sees what warranted Genna’s disgust; Ger is hunched over on the ground, his moccasins coated in vomit.

“He ate too much at once,” Kevan explains, rubbing slow circles on Gerion’s back.  The little boy throws up, over and over and over, as Tygett laughs and Genna wrinkles her nose.

“That’s it.  We’re going home,” Tywin snarls.  Kevan nods his agreement and begins to guide Gerion up to standing- but Tywin’s baby brother shakes his head violently, his Indian-chief headdress swinging to and fro.

“No! I’m fine!” He uses his forearm to wipe the puke from his chin, then forces himself upright.  ”Seriously, Ty, I feel way better now!”

“You’re not fine.  You ate so much candy that it made you sick.  Halloween’s over.”  He turns on his heel and sets off in a quick homeward clip, leaving it to Kevan to get the rest in line.

But his pace is slowed when Gerion trots up to him and tugs on his sleeve.  Tywin gives the kid his fiercest glare…but he feels his resolve soften when Gerion juts his lower lip out in a quivering pout.

“Pleeeeease, Ty?  Halloween’s my favorite…and we still have ten whole blocks to go….pleeeeease?”

Genna and Tygett echo the plea, and even Kevan watches him expectantly-

With a beleaguered sigh, Tywin throws up his hands.  ”Fine. But if any of you get sick again, I’m taking all the candy away, understand?”

But the little ones barely stick around to hear his ultimatum before dashing off, leaving Tywin and Kevan to roll their eyes at each other and stroll along in their wake.


	12. Haunted House (Jaime/Sansa)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the following prompt: Jaime/Sansa; on a cold and stormy night, they take shelter in haunted Harrenhal!

She shudders each time the wind wails through the casement, and he nearly feels shamed by how quickly and willingly he pulls her into a protective embrace.  All around them, the heavy pall of death and torture and destruction…beneath them, the ominous thrum of cursed ground…

An involuntary shiver dances its way up his own spine, and she immediately coils her arms around his waist and presses her body close.

They search for refuge- any roof not leaking, any surface not molded.  At last, they come upon a windowless room, scarcely more than a cupboard, with a dry floor and solid walls.  Jaime and Sansa fit their bedrolls side by side; the idea of leaving her behind, of sleeping in another room seems suddenly laughable.  

The storm howls, angry and plaintive and lonely.  

He knows not when she slipped into his bedroll; one moment, he felt layers of fabric between them, only to disappear in the next instant.  He lies in wait as she fits herself to him, her petal-soft cheek cushioned in the space between his neck and shoulder, her legs weaving between his own.  

“Hold me,” she whispers against his neck, warm breath and soft lips sending another shiver coursing through his body.

His arms are stiff and unsure, caging her in a way that can hardly be comfortable.  But then they breathe together- once, twice- and his joints relax, his muscles soften, and her weight against his body feels pleasant, desirable…natural.

She does not flinch away when the golden hand makes contact with the skin of her wrist- she just brings herself closer, until her hips press to his- he thinks to angle himself away, but his nearness seems to bring her comfort in this godsforsaken place…and it is she who moves nearer, it is she who wraps and coils and nestles.  

He doesn’t realize that his nose is cold until she rests her forehead against his, her mouth hovering so, so close…

Her lips are cool, but her tongue is warm, and he closes his eyes tight, willing himself to think of nothing but hot and cold, asleep and awake, breaths in, breaths out.


End file.
